Flowers bloom every day.
Day after day, come what may.
Mind looks for science, and purpose.
But they just bloom not to pose nor propose.
As if the purpose of their existence is served.
Clouds and wind roam around.
Making our hearts pound and sound.
Shaking the mighty Sun to dimmer.
Showers of heaven blowing the hot summer.
As if the purpose of their existence is served.
Thoughts spring up dressed in verses.
Moaning for meaning in meaningless stresses.
Soul of the thoughts sewn in the body of poem.
A work of emotion can send a beam not a theme.
As if the purpose of their existence is served.